You Can't Keep the Change E-Book

Peter Cheyney

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

THE Chinese clock on the mantelpiece struck seven.
A beam of May sunshine, following a sharp shower, pushed its way through the crack between the heavy velvet curtains, slanted obliquely across the big settee, stayed for a moment in the long, expensively furnished bedroom then, apparently disheartened, disappeared, giving place to a fresh shower.
The door between the sitting-room and the bedroom opened slowly. Effie Thompson's red head appeared, followed by the rest of her. She stood in the doorway, one hand on hip, her green eyes narrowed, scanning the disordered room, noting the trail of trousers, coat, waistcoat, shirt and what-will-you that lay between the doorway and the settee.
She sighed. She walked quietly about the room, picking up the clothes, folding them, laying them on a chair.
On the settee, Callaghan lay stretched out at full length. He was wearing a sea-green silk undervest and shorts. One foot sported a blue silk sock and a well-polished shoe; the other merely a suspender which hung precariously from the big toe.
His hands were folded across his belly. He slept deeply and peacefully. His broad shoulders, which almost covered the width of the settee, descended to a thin waist and narrow hips. His face was thin and the high cheekbones made it appear longer. His black hair was tousled and unruly.
On the floor beside the settee was a big, half-empty bottle of eau-de-Cologne with the stopper beside it.

Leseprobe

You Can't Keep the Change

Peter Cheyney

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385743185

You Can't Keep the Change

CHAPTER I. — EASY MONEY

CHAPTER II. — ENTER GABBY

CHAPTER III. — MEET THE GIRLS

CHAPTER IV. — THREE'S A PARTY

CHAPTER V. — THE LINE FOR CLARISSA

CHAPTER VI. — THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE

CHAPTER VII. — ONE FOR THE BAG

CHAPTER VIII. — AFTER DARK

CHAPTER IX. — LOVE SCENE

CHAPTER X. — PORTRAIT OF ESME

CHAPTER XI. — BEDROOM SCENE

CHAPTER XII. — CONFIDENTIAL STUFF

CHAPTER XIII. — NIGHT OUT

CHAPTER XIV. — ONE FOR THE ROAD

CHAPTER XV. — YOU CAN'T KEEP THE CHANGE

CHAPTER I. — EASY MONEY

THE Chinese clock on the mantelpiece struck seven.

A beam of May sunshine, following a sharp shower, pushed its way through the crack between the heavy velvet curtains, slanted obliquely across the big settee, stayed for a moment in the long, expensively furnished bedroom then, apparently disheartened, disappeared, giving place to a fresh shower.

The door between the sitting-room and the bedroom opened slowly. Effie Thompson's red head appeared, followed by the rest of her. She stood in the doorway, one hand on hip, her green eyes narrowed, scanning the disordered room, noting the trail of trousers, coat, waistcoat, shirt and what-will-you that lay between the doorway and the settee.

She sighed. She walked quietly about the room, picking up the clothes, folding them, laying them on a chair.

On the settee, Callaghan lay stretched out at full length. He was wearing a sea-green silk undervest and shorts. One foot sported a blue silk sock and a well-polished shoe; the other merely a suspender which hung precariously from the big toe.

His hands were folded across his belly. He slept deeply and peacefully. His broad shoulders, which almost covered the width of the settee, descended to a thin waist and narrow hips. His face was thin and the high cheekbones made it appear longer. His black hair was tousled and unruly.

On the floor beside the settee was a big, half-empty bottle of eau-de-Cologne with the stopper beside it.

Effie Thompson replaced the stopper and stood looking down at Callaghan's face. She looked at his mouth. She wondered why the devil she should be so intrigued with that mouth.

Callaghan grunted.

She went out of the room closing the door behind her gently. She walked across the sitting-room out into the corridor. She went into the electric lift and down to the offices two floors below.

As she walked along the passage that led to the main door of the offices she found herself wondering why Callaghan had been on a jag. She expected it was a woman. Whenever something started—or ended—with Callaghan there was a jag. She wondered whether this was the start of something or the ending of something... or somebody...

She said a very wicked word under her breath.

Nikolls was sitting in Callaghan's room, with his chair tipped back on its hind legs. He was smoking a Lucky Strike and blowing smoke rings. Nikolls was broad in the shoulder and inclined to run to a little fat in the region of the waist-belt. His face was round and good-humored; his eyes intelligent, penetrating.

As Effie Thompson passed him on the way to Callaghan's desk he began to sing "You Got Snake's Hips." Simultaneously, and with amazing speed, he switched his chair round and aimed a playful smack at the most obvious portion of her anatomy. She side-stepped expertly—just in time. She said:

"Listen, you damned Canadian. I've told you to keep your hands to yourself. One of these days I'm going to kick you on the shins."

Nikolls sighed.

"Look, honey," he said plaintively. "Be human. Why can't a man take a smack at you now an' again. It's natural—ain't it?"

She sat down behind the desk. She began to tidy the litter of papers.

"Why is it natural?" she asked.

Her green eyes were angry.

Nikolls fished about in his coat pocket and produced a fresh cigarette. He lit it from the stub of the old one. Then, with the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he heaved a sigh which, intended to be tragic, sounded like a whale coming up for air.

"Every guy has got a weakness, honey," he said. "Ain't you ever learned that? Every normal guy, I mean. O.K. Well, my weakness is hips. I go for hips. I always have gone for 'em an' I always will. In a big way I mean."

He shifted the cigarette to the other corner of his mouth.

"Some fellas think ankles are the thing," Nikolls continued, almost dreamily, "other fellas go for face, an' fancy hairstyles, or poise, or a nice line in talks but with me it's hips, an' I'm gonna stand up an' tell the whole cock-eyed world that when it comes to hips you got every dame I ever met lookin' like somethin' you find under a rock when the tide goes out. An' I'm gonna tell you somethin'. Just before I die I'm gonna take one big smack at you an' then I'll pass out happy."

She pushed a tendril of red hair back into place.

She said: "Nikolls... I've never heard any one talk such rot as you do. You..."

He grinned at her.

"Oh, yeah?" he said. "Looky... maybe you wouldn't mind if somebody did take a smack at you, so long as it was the right guy... Now, if it was Slim... ?"

She reddened, flashed an angry look at him.

He blew a smoke ring.

"Say, how is the big boy?" he asked. "Is he conscious yet?"

"He's snoring his head off," said Effie. "Clothes all over the bedroom. He must have had a head last night. He's used half a bottle of eau-de-Cologne."

Nikolls nodded.

"That one certainly did drink some liquor last night," he said. "Plenty. An' he was as happy as a sandlark..."

She shut a drawer with a bang.

"The advent of a new lady friend or the end of an old one," she said.

She looked at Nikolls. He grinned back at her mischievously.

"You're sorta curious, ain't you, honey?" he said. "Well, I don't know a thing... Slim never talks about dolls to me. He's a very close guy. Mind you, I've seen him around with one or two very sweet numbers. But still that wouldn't interest you, would it, honey?"

She flushed.

"It certainly would not," she said.

One of the telephones on Callaghan's desk jangled. She took off the receiver.

"Yes... This is Callaghan Investigations. I'm sorry, Mr. Layne, I've been trying to get Mr. Callaghan to call you all day. No... he's in conference at this very moment. I can't disturb him. I'm very sorry, but he's just concluding a most important case. Will you speak to his first assistant, Mr. Nikolls... Thank you, Mr. Layne... hold on, please..."

She passed the receiver on its long cord to Nikolls. He shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth and tilted his chair back to a perilous angle.

"Is this Mr. Layne... ? This is Windemere Nikolls. What can we do for you, Mr. Layne?... I see... yeah... I'm ahead of you... well what's the stuff worth?... One hundred thousand... You don't say... Say, Mr. Layne, if you'll let me have your number I'll get Mr. Callaghan to call you right back directly he comes out of that conference he's at right now. I'll do that... 'Bye..."

He threw the receiver back to Effie Thompson who caught it neatly and replaced it. He got up.

"It looks like some big business is startin' around here, sister," he said. "You tinkle through to Slim an' wake him up. I gotta talk to him."

The telephone jangled again. She picked up the receiver. Nikolls heard Callaghan's voice, brusque and rather acid, coming through from the flat above.

Effie said: "I'm glad you're awake. I came up and looked at you, but I thought it was more than my life would be worth to disturb you."

Nikolls got up and took the receiver from her hand.

"Hallo, Slim," he said. "Say... what she really meant was that she just had to come up an' look at them green silk underpants of yours. Yeah... it makes her feel good... but don't tell her I said so. Look... do you want to listen to business?... OK. I'm coming up... All right."

He hung up.

"He says you're to telephone down to the service to send him up a big pot of tea... very hot an' very strong... an' then you can go home, sister... maybe one night when I ain't busy you an' me could go to a movie..."

"Like hell," said Effie. "D'you think I'd trust myself in the dark with you?"

Nikolls grinned.

"Why not, honey?" he said. "I'm swell in the dark an' I'm just as dangerous in the daylight anyhow. I remember once some dame in Minnesota..."

The telephone jangled again. She said as she reached for it:

"I'd get upstairs if I were you. That's him and he's in a very bad temper if I know anything about Mr. Callaghan."

"Maybe you're right," said Nikolls.

He went to the door.

Effie said into the telephone in a very smooth, cool voice:

"Yes, Mr. Callaghan... Yes... he's just left the office... he's on his way up... and I'm ringing through to service for the tea. And is there anything else?...Very well... Good-night...."

CALLAGHAN came out of the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror carefully tying a black watered-silk bow. When this was done he put on a double-breasted dinner jacket and went over to the corner cupboard. He produced a bottle of whisky, a water carafe and two glasses.

He poured out the whisky. He drank four fingers neat and swallowed a little water afterwards. Nikolls came across and helped himself.

Callaghan said: "What's the story, Windy?"

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and began to cough.

Nikolls said: "It's some lawyer guy named Layne. They've been tryin' to get you all afternoon. The firm's Layne, Norcot, Fellins, Treap and Layne. They're good lawyers—act for a lot of swells. This Layne is the head man. The case is a steal... somebody's pinched about a hundred thousand pounds worth of first-class ice from some guy in Devonshire. They've had the police on it but they don't seem satisfied. I don't know any more details. They want you to go in on it. Layne wants to see you. I said you'd ring back. He's waiting at his office. It's in Green Street just off the Park."

Callaghan looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock.

"Ring through and say I'm coming round now," he said. "I'll be with him in ten minutes. And you stay around downstairs in case I want you."

Nikolls nodded. As he got up the house telephone rang. He answered it. Callaghan was looking out of the window.

Nikolls put his hand over the transmitter.

"It's a dame," he said. "Her name's Vendayne—Miss Vendayne. She says that she believes the Layne firm have been trying to get into touch with you. She says she wants to see you urgently. What do I say?"

Callaghan grinned.

"Funny business," he said. "Make an appointment for tonight somewhere. Anywhere she likes—if it's in London."

Nikolls talked into the telephone. After he had hung up he said:

"It's O.K. She says for you to meet her at Ventura's Club, near Shepherd's Market, at ten o'clock."

Callaghan lit a fresh cigarette.

"What did she sound like?" he asked.

Nikolls grinned. He waved his big hands dreamily.

"She had one of those voices, Slim," he said. "You know... music an' promises of rewards an' all that Omar Khayyám stuff..."

"You don't say," said Callaghan. "Windy, you're getting poetic."

"Yeah..." said Nikolls. "I'm like that sometimes... but I sorta spoil myself. I'm always poetic at the wrong times. Just when I oughta be spoutin' poetry I find myself tryin' to take a smack at some dame an' I get all washed up."

He got up.

"I'll wait downstairs in the office," he said. "Maybe you'll come through later?"

Callaghan nodded. He put on a black soft hat and went out. As the bedroom door closed behind him, Nikolls reached for the whisky bottle.

Callaghan reopened the door.

"Help yourself to a drink, Windy," he said.

He grinned.

Nikolls cursed softly to himself.

"Why in hell didn't I wait?" he muttered.

MR. LAYNE, of Layne, Norcot, Fellins, Treap and Layne was very thin, very dignified. He looked extremely ascetic and rather uncomfortable.

Callaghan, seated in the big chair on the other side of the lawyer's desk, lit a cigarette with an engine-turned gold lighter.

Layne said: "I am afraid it's rather an extraordinary case, Mr. Callaghan."

Callaghan grinned.

"I gathered that," he said. "When somebody steals £100,000 worth of jewellery it is a job for the police, not a private detective." He looked at the lawyer. "That's obvious, isn't it?" he asked.

Layne nodded. He put the tips of his fingers together and looked over them at Callaghan. He said:

"Mr. Callaghan, I think I'd better give you the whole story from the beginning. I should like to point out to you that it was not my idea to employ a private detective in this case. During my legal experience I have always found the services of the police adequate."

Callaghan said: "You don't say..."

He flipped the ash from his cigarette.

"In a nutshell," said Mr. Layne precisely, "the position is this: My client is Major Eustace Vendayne. You may have heard of the Vendaynes—a very old Devon family—very ancient indeed. Major Vendayne lives at Margraud Manor, a delightful estate near Gara in South Devon.

"He is—or was," the lawyer went on, "the life owner of some extremely valuable antique jewellery, which came into possession of the family in rather unique circumstances. One of the Vendaynes sank a great deal of Spanish shipping at the time of Queen Elizabeth, and he was allowed to retain a percentage of the captured booty. He left directions as to its disposal after his death in his will.

"He directed that the head of the Vendayne family should be owner and trustee of the jewellery in his lifetime. He was to keep it intact in safe custody and allow it to be worn on the proper occasions by women members of the family. If he attempted to sell it, it was to pass immediately to the next male in line to whom it would go, in any event, after his death.

"Should any member of the family have no male heir by the time he was twenty-five years of age, and if there were no other male member of the family existing, then the holder was entitled to dispose of the jewellery as he saw fit. You understand?"

Callaghan nodded.

"The present owner and trustee of the jewellery is my client," said Layne. "After his death it goes to his nephew Lancelot Vendayne, who, being over twenty-five years of age, being unmarried and having no heir, is entitled to dispose of it when it comes to him after my client's death—should he wish to do so.

"Some eleven weeks ago," the lawyer went on, "thieves broke into the Manor House, opened the safe and removed the jewellery. They were either very lucky or they had some means of knowing that on that particular night the jewellery would be in the house, because only the day before it had been brought over from the bank vault at Newton Abbott—where it was usually kept—for the purpose of a private exhibition which was to be held at the Manor.

"When the theft was discovered Major Vendayne informed the local police at once. The matter was taken up by the County Police and after a week's delay the services of Scotland Yard were requested. It seems that up to the moment the authorities have discovered nothing.

"The jewellery," Layne continued, "was insured for £100,000, which, believe me, does not represent its true value. Major Vendayne, of course, made a claim on the Insurance Company, but for some reason or other—and I must say I fail to understand this—the Company do not seem inclined to meet the claim promptly. They have during the past three or four weeks made all sorts of vague excuses, and, quite candidly, at the moment I have no information as to when they propose to settle the claim.

"This," the lawyer went on, "is where Mr. Lancelot Vendayne comes into the story. As the next owner of the jewellery, and the one to whom it would actually belong in its entirety with power for him to do as he liked with it, he is, naturally, most perturbed about the situation. After all he was entitled to regard it almost as being his own property. My client is fifty-five years of age and has a weakness of the heart. He is not expected to live a great deal longer.

"To cut a long story short," said the lawyer, "Mr. Lancelot Vendayne has become more and more perturbed about the attitude of the Insurance Company. It had been arranged between him and Major Vendayne—and I think the young man's attitude was most generous—that when the claim was settled he should receive £75,000 and my client would be entitled to keep the remaining balance of £25,000.

"Two weeks ago Lancelot Vendayne went down to the Manor House and saw my client. He suggested to him that as the police seem to be doing very little in this matter it was time that outside help was brought in. Apparently," said Mr. Layne, looking at Callaghan over the top of his pince-nez, "Lancelot has heard about you. Your reputation," he continued with an icy smile, "has evidently preceded you. He insisted that my client should retain your services and that you should endeavour to find out if possible, first of all, what happened to the jewellery, and secondly why the Insurance Company are taking up the attitude which they have adopted."

Callaghan said: "I can answer the second part of that question now. I've done a lot of work for Insurance Companies. I know their methods. They just don't like the claim. They're stalling for time."

The solicitor said: "So I gathered. But Lancelot Vendayne —and for that matter my client—would like to know why."

The lawyer got up. He crossed over to the fireplace and stood, his hands behind his back, looking at Callaghan.

"Would you like to take up this case, Mr. Callaghan?" he said.

"Why not?" Callaghan answered. "It sounds an interesting case. I like the idea. I shall want a retainer of £250. If I get that jewellery back I'll put in a bill. It'll be a big bill. If I don't get it back, I'll put in a bill not quite so big."

The lawyer nodded.

"That is agreeable," he said. "I'll have the cheque sent to you to-morrow. I expect you'll want to go down to Margraud. I believe there is an excellent train service. Will you go to-morrow?"

"Maybe," said Callaghan, "and I never use trains anyway."

He lit another cigarette.

"Mr. Layne," he said, "supposing you tell me something about the Vendayne family, or isn't there a family?"

The lawyer nodded. A little smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. Callaghan thought it was a cynical smile.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Callaghan," he said, "there is a family. I will describe it to you. There is my client—Major Vendayne—who as I have told you is fifty-five years of age, with a not very good heart. Then there is his eldest daughter, a most charming young lady—Miss Audrey Vendayne. She is I think thirty years of age. There are two other daughters—Clarissa aged twenty-eight and Esme aged twenty-five. They are all extremely attractive. Clarissa and Esme," the lawyer went on, "are thoroughly modern young women. In fact, I suppose that people of my generation might possibly consider them a trifle wild. They have what I believe is called, in these days, temperament as well as looks."

Callaghan said: "I see. They're all good-lookin' and attractive. But Clarissa and Esme are a trifle wild and they've got temperaments. Audrey is good-looking, but she hasn't got a temperament and she's not wild. What has she got?"

Layne said very coldly: "Miss Vendayne is a most charming, agreeable and delightful young woman. She is unlike her sisters merely in the fact that she is not at all wild and has no temperament to speak of."

"I see," said Callaghan. "I'm sorry I interrupted."

He grinned amiably at the lawyer.

"These three ladies and my client live at the Manor House," continued the lawyer. "The only other member of the family living, as I have already said, is Mr. Lancelot Vendayne. He does not live in Devonshire. He lives in town."

Callaghan nodded.

"Do you know his address?" he asked.

"He lives at the Grant Hotel, in Clarges Street," replied the lawyer. "He is an interesting young man and has made, I believe, considerable money on the Stock Exchange. He is a lucky gambler they tell me. He plays golf and has a fondness for night clubs. He is quite a nice sort of person. In the evening he is usually found at the Ventura Club, where he drinks a great deal and plans fresh raids on the stock market. As I told you, he is responsible for your being called in on this unfortunate business."

Callaghan got up. He stubbed out his cigarette.

He said: "Thanks for the information. I'll probably go down to Devonshire some time. Maybe to-morrow. You might let Major Vendayne know I'm coming. I'll telephone the Manor when I'm on my way. I'd like to stay there. I shall take an assistant with me."

"Very well, Mr. Callaghan," said the lawyer. "I'll inform my client. He'll expect you. I wish you good luck."

Callaghan said: "Thanks."

He picked up his hat and went out.

IT was nine-thirty when Callaghan finished his dinner. He came out of the Premier Lounge and turned down Albemarle Street. He walked into Bond Street, through Bruton Street, through Berkeley Square into the region of Shepherd's Market. He turned into the long mews that bisects one corner of the Market and turned into the passage on the left. At the end of the passage the entrance of The Ventura Club formed a cul de sac. Over the door was a green "blackout" shaded light. On each side of it a miniature tree in a tub.

Callaghan paused before the entrance and produced his cigarette-case. He was lighting the cigarette when the woman came out of the shadow beside one of the tree tubs.

She said: "Mr. Callaghan?"

He looked at her. She was tall and slim and supple. Callaghan had a vague impression that she was very well dressed and that she emanated a subtle and discreet perfume. There was a peculiar quality in her voice that was, he thought, extraordinarily attractive.

He said: "Miss Vendayne, I imagine? Somehow I thought I'd find you inside..."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I didn't know where to make an appointment to meet you," she said. "I discovered that your office was off Berkeley Square. I thought this would be as good a place as anywhere."

Callaghan said: "Why not?"

There was a pause. He stood, inhaling his cigarette smoke, looking at her. After a moment she said:

"Can we go somewhere? I want to talk to you."

Callaghan grinned in the darkness.

"I rather imagined you did," he said.

He turned and began to walk down the passage into the mews. He could hear her high heels tapping just behind him.

In Charles Street, they found a wandering taxi-cab.

Callaghan said: "There's a not-too-bad club I know near here. Would you like to go there?"

He stopped the cab. In the darkness he could almost feel her shrugging her shoulders.

They drove to the club in Conduit Street. On the way he amused himself trying to identify the perfume she was wearing. After a while he gave it up.

When the cab stopped, Callaghan helped her out. She drew her arm away quickly as her foot reached the pavement. He paid off the driver. As he turned away from the moving cab the moon came out and he saw her. He had a sudden picture of a white face, half-hidden by a short veil, framed with dark hair, of two large dark eyes, a straight and attractive nose with sensitive nostrils and a superbly chiselled mouth. Callaghan, who liked looking at women's mouths, thought that hers was quite delightful. He remembered Nikoll's wisecrack about her voice... "music an' promises of rewards an' all that Omar Khayyám stuff...." He wondered if Nikolls was right.

His eyes wandered quickly over her. She wore a coat and skirt that fitted as a suit should fit. She had style, Callaghan thought. He wondered about Clarissa and Esme...

The cab disappeared. They stood for a moment looking at each other. Then Callaghan said:

"I wouldn't do anything you didn't want to do. You don't seem awfully sure of yourself. You look to me as if you'd rather be somewhere else."

She smiled. It was a small smile. Then she said arrogantly:

"I would. I'm not used to having heart-to-heart talks with private detectives whom I don't know. But as I'm here I'd better go through with it."

He grinned at her.

"Too bad," he said. "It must be awful for you. Come inside. Maybe you'll feel better after a drink."

They went up the stairs to the first floor. The club was a one-room affair—a big room with a bar at one end. It was empty except for the bar-tender. Callaghan led the way to a table and, when she was seated, went to the bar and ordered fine maison and black coffee. When he got back to the table she said:

"I suppose the best thing I can do is to say what I've got to say and be done with it."

Callaghan smiled at her. She noticed his white even teeth.

"That's always a good idea," he said. "Only the devil of it is that when we've said what we've got to say, very often we're not done with it."

She smiled. It was a very cold smile.

"You're fearfully, clever, aren't you, Mr. Callaghan?" she said. "I've heard that about you. I suppose I ought to be rather frightened or something..."

Callaghan said: "I wouldn't know."

He sat down.

The bar-tender brought the brandy and coffee. He offered her a cigarette and, when she refused, lit one for himself. He drew the smoke down into his lungs, exhaled it slowly through one nostril. He said:

"Well... ?"

He was grinning amiably.

She looked towards the window. Then she said: "I would like a cigarette, please."

He gave her one and lit it. As he held up the lighter he thought that Miss Audrey Vendayne had something—as Nikolls would say—even if she was finding it a little difficult to bring matters to a head.

She smoked silently for a moment. Then she said very quickly:

"Mr. Callaghan, I don't want you to handle this case for my father. I don't think it's necessary."

"I see," said Callaghan. "I suppose you've got a good reason for wanting me not to handle it?"

"The very best of reasons," she answered. Her eyes were cold. "The matter has been put into the hands of the police," she went on. "I think the police are very efficient. I do not see why the services of a private detective are necessary."

Callaghan said nothing. There was a pause. He began to sip his coffee.

"Of course," she went on, "if you go out of the case now... if you give it up—although you haven't even started it—I think you ought to have some sort of compensation."

Callaghan shook the ash off his cigarette. Then he looked at the glowing end for quite a while. One corner of his mouth was curled up in an odd sort of smile. He could sense her feeling of impatience.

He said: "I think that's very nice of you. Very sporting. The devil of it is I've already seen Mr. Layne—your father's lawyer. I've practically accepted the case."

He looked at her. She was looking towards the window. Callaghan thought that even if, as Layne had said, Audrey Vendayne was not wild and had not a lot of temperament she still had plenty of something. Anyway, Callaghan had little opinion of the abilities of lawyers to sum up character.

Her glance returned to him. She said casually:

"Possibly. But I don't see any reason why you can't be bought off the case. Can you?"

Callaghan looked at her for a moment. Then he began to grin wickedly.

"Of course, Miss Vendayne, I'm always open to be 'bought off' a case. What compensation would you suggest? And I think compensation is a hell of a word. I like it. Having regard to the fact that there's nothing to compensate me for, I think it's good."

She flushed. She said quietly:

"You're making fun of me?"

"I never make fun of a woman who is as serious as you are," Callaghan answered. "I was merely curious about the compensation."

She nodded. She looked down at the table and made as if to pick up the little glass of brandy. She did not. Then she looked at him and said:

"I don't think my father should be worried any more about this business of the jewellery being stolen. He's been terribly harassed about it. And he's not well. He should be left alone. It doesn't matter sufficiently."

"No?" queried Callaghan. "I should have thought that a hundred thousand pounds worth of jewels would have mattered to any one."

"That is a matter of opinion," she said. "I don't think it matters."

Callaghan nodded.

"Excellent," he said. His voice held a definite tinge of insolence. "So you don't think it matters. And where do we go from there?"

Her eyes blazed.

"I wonder has any one told you that you can be fearfully impertinent, Mr. Callaghan?" she said.

He grinned.

"Lots of people have, Miss Vendayne," he answered. "And I suppose I should be considered even more impertinent if I said—so what!" He blew a smoke ring and watched it rise in the air. "If you've got a proposition I'm listening," he went on. "I suppose we didn't come here to discuss my ability to be impertinent."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You're perfectly right," she said. "Very well then, briefly, my proposition is this. I am willing to pay you two hundred pounds immediately if you decide not to take the case."

Callaghan said softly: "Mr. Layne offered me two hundred and fifty to handle it. Your offer would have to be over his."

She said: "I'll give you three hundred."

"Done," said Callaghan.

She looked at him for a moment. Then she began to open her handbag. She stopped suddenly and said:

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't," said Callaghan.

He lit another cigarette.

She said something under her breath. It sounded like "pig"... Then she opened the bag and took out a packet of banknotes. She extracted six fifty pound notes from the pile and pushed them towards Callaghan. He put them in his waistcoat pocket.

She got up.

"Good-night, Mr. Callaghan," she said.

Callaghan stood up.

"Thanks for the money," he said. "But aren't you going to drink your brandy, Miss Vendayne? Or don't you drink with strange men?"

He stood looking at her.

"Good-night, Mr. Callaghan," she repeated.

She walked to the door and went out. He could hear her high heels tapping down the stairs.

Callaghan sighed. He sat for a moment, looking at her undrunk glass of fine maison and the now cold cup of black coffee. He walked over to the bar and ordered a brandy and soda. He drank it, put on his hat and went out.

IT was eleven o'clock when Callaghan came into the office. Nikolls was seated at the desk in the outer room playing patience.

Callaghan said: "Windy, you can get around and do a little fast work. Go round to the garage and hire a car. Go home, get a few hours' sleep, pack your bags and get down to Devonshire. Stay at an hotel near—but not too near—Margraud Manor, near Gara Rock. You should be there early to-morrow morning."

Nikolls said: "That suits me. I could do with some sea air."

Callaghan went on: "Collect all the local rumours about the Vendayne family. There are three daughters—Audrey, Clarissa and Esme. Clarissa and Esme are supposed to be a little wild. Check on them. Find out if they've got any boy friends locally, how they spend their time and all the rest of it. Understand?"

Nikolls said: "I've got it. Did you see the Vendayne dame?"

"I saw her," Callaghan replied. "The eldest one. She paid me three hundred pounds to throw the case."

"Marvellous," said Nikolls. "Here's once we get paid for not doing something."

CALLAGHAN went into his office. He sat down at the desk. Nikolls ambled in and stood looking at him.

"You'll meet me the day after to-morrow," said Callaghan. "You'd better wait for me around six o'clock at the Clock Tower in Newton Abbott. Have your bags with you. I'll pick you up. Have that information about the Vendayne family by then and don't let any of the local wise-guys get on to you. Understand?"

"I got it," said Nikolls. "I'm practically there."

He went to the door. When arrived he turned and said:

"Am I dreamin' or does this case stink?"

"I don't know," said Callaghan, "but I don't think you're dreaming."

Nikolls fished about in his coat pocket for a Lucky Strike. He said pleasantly:

"I think it's a nice case. The eldest Vendayne doll hands you three hundred to walk out on it an' you're not walkin' out. She can't say anything because quite obviously she don't want anybody to know she's paid you to throw it. Nice work. You make both ways."

Callaghan said very softly: "I don't remember asking your opinion, Windy."

Nikolls flushed.

"Sorry," he said. "Me... I always talk too much."

"Don't worry about that," said Callaghan. "I can always stop that if I want to by knocking a few of your teeth down your throat. By the way, you'd better pack a tuxedo. And when we get to Margraud go easy on those Canadian tales. Sometimes people like the Vendaynes don't appreciate 'em."

Nikolls said: "I'll be so Fifth Avenue it's gonna hurt. So long, Slim..."

He went out.

Callaghan leaned back in his swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. He lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly. Then he took his feet off the desk, reached for the desk pad and wrote a note to Effie Thompson. It said:

Effie,

Directly you get here telephone Gringall at the Yard. Tell him I'd like to see him. Afternoon if possible. Tell him that I've been retained in the Vendayne jewellery steal.

S.C.

He put the note in the right-hand drawer of her desk in the outer office.

Then he put on his hat and went out.

He walked across Berkeley Square towards the Ventura Club.

CHAPTER II. — ENTER GABBY

MEET Mr. Ventura.

If you have ever seen a picture—taken in his prime—of Mr. Al Capone and you care to imagine the face a little fuller, a little more smiling, then you will have an adequate idea of Mr. Ventura; who, as he would be the first to admit, was invariably one jump ahead of the market and by the use of much foresight managed to stay in that enviable position.

At an early age Mr. Gabriel Ventura—Gabby to his friends—had discovered the efficacy of being all things to all men—and a few women. It was perhaps for this reason that all sorts and conditions of ladies and gentlemen found their way into the expensively furnished, well-appointed Ventura Club.

You could get anything you liked there if you knew how to ask for it.

On the other hand if you were up from the country and merely dropped in for a drink and to look at pretty women, no one would even try to take you for your pocket book.

If there had been odd rumours about the Ventura Club, and if, on occasion, Scotland Yard had taken more than a passing interest in what went on within its elegant portals, that was no affair of Gabby's. He believed in living and letting live, although, it has been said, he was not so keen on the letting live part.

If Gabby had made good at a time when most West End Night Club proprietors were trying to get enough money to get their shoes soled, it was because he had "vision." Gabby liked to think of himself as a Napoleon of night life, but a Napoleon with more "vision" than the original boyo. Gabby did not intend to end up on a St. Helena masquerading under the name of Dartmoor or Portland.

He had a series of mottos, which had assisted him during a career not entirely devoid of incident. One was: "Play 'em along and don't lose your temper." Another: "The sucker always comes back for more"; and another: "A wise man might trust a man but only a mug trusts a woman."

So there you are.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Callaghan arrived. He left his hat with a pretty girl in the cloak-room. He walked along the passage, went through the heavy velvet curtains and stood looking round the main floor of the club. Whenever Callaghan had been in the Ventura Club he had always looked at the large tastefully furnished room with a certain admiration for Gabby.

Other club proprietors sunk their dance floor a few feet and had a raised balcony on which the dining tables were set around the edges of the room, with a higher band platform at the end, and the furniture was always gold or chromium. Gabby did not do anything like that. He was original. His dance floor—an excellent one, not too big or too small—was raised two feet off the main floor, and the dining tables set on the lower level that surrounded it. The furniture was antique oak and comfortable. An air of luxury, even of good taste, pervaded the atmosphere.

The band—a series of hand-picked maestros from the East End—played in a balcony about eight feet off the dance floor. At the moment it was resting, looking about it with that peculiarly vacant expression of face adopted by swing players on the slightest excuse.

On the right-hand side of the room, in charge of a tall slim brunette and a shorter plump blonde—two ladies who lost nothing by contrast—was the bar. Gabby, in a faultless tuxedo, white marcella evening shirt and collar, was leaning against the far end smoking a Green Upmann. He smiled and waved his hand when he saw Callaghan.

Callaghan went over. Gabby said:

"Hallo, Slim. You're looking fine. One of these days when you want to do me a good turn just let me know who your tailor is. He certainly knows how to cut clothes."

Callaghan cocked an eyebrow.